Chapter 5
Someone stood beside her bed. No, not stood. Loomed.
Clara’s eyes flew open and she stifled a gasp.
Desmond did indeed loom next to her bed.
In the light of day, he seemed much, much larger than he had last night, shoulders wide, torso broad.
Face…yes…even more handsome in the early hours of dawn.
His hair lay loose around his shoulders, and there were taut lines in the corners of his deeply blue eyes.
Lines of concern.
“What—?” she managed.
“Someone’s coming.” His voice was tight, edged.
She strained to hear. “In the hall?”
“Down the drive.”
Frowning, Clara struggled to sit up. Images from last night flooded her mind, competing with what she attempted to understand about this morning.
The highwaymen at her door. Being chased through the secret passages.
Treating a gunshot wound. Hugh’s playfulness.
Gideon’s warm attention. Alluring Desmond in her bedchamber, telling her stories until she fell asleep.
And now…somebody was coming here
“Olive.” She pushed to standing, and when she staggered, still gaining wakefulness, his hand was at her elbow, steadying her. “My housekeeper.”
“This place has a housekeeper?”
She scowled at him. “She comes twice a week to check on me, cook some food. It never made sense for her to tidy the house when it’s only me.”
He looked as though he wanted to argue that point. Instead, he frowned. “She can’t see us.”
“I’ll talk to her.” Clara glanced down at her rumpled robe and nightgown. There wouldn’t be time to change, so she stepped into her slippers and moved toward the door.
Desmond was in front of her in an instant. With the same astonishing strength he displayed last night, he easily moved the wingback chair away from the door, then opened it and gestured for her to head outside.
She hurried into the corridor, which was thankfully free of any of the highwaymen, but she slowed her steps when Desmond strode behind her. “What are you doing?”
“Sticking close to you.”
Her mouth thinned. “I assure you, I’m not going to tell Olive that my house has been commandeered by a gang of highwaymen.”
“As you like,” he said, his hand low on her back, urging her forward, “but I’ll need a little assurance you won’t have her running for the law.”
Clara exhaled, a mixture of annoyance and fear. It had been a possibility, although a dangerous one. She sped down the stairs and was going to open the front door with the hope of intercepting Olive as the housekeeper came down the drive, before Desmond’s voice stopped her.
“She’s already at the servants’ entrance.”
“How do you know?” she demanded.
“I heard her.”
Clara shook her head at the impossibility. No one’s hearing was that acute, and yet, when she opened the front door, no one was on the drive.
“Hurry,” Desmond clipped.
She closed the door and sped toward the kitchen. As she ran, she passed Gideon, coming out of the library with a book in his hand.
“Who’s with Hugh?” Desmond demanded.
“Liam took second watch.” He looked a little weary, but when she and Desmond moved past him, he straightened. “Someone’s at the servants’ entrance.”
It seemed everyone in this gang of thieves possessed extraordinary hearing.
“We’re on our way,” Desmond answered, urging her forward.
They left Gideon behind them as they went down a hallway, turned, and then reached the baize-covered door that led to the kitchen.
“Wait,” Desmond said, before Clara could open it. “I’m going to stay on this side, but I’ll be here, listening.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“I think it is.” Before she could argue any further, he straightened. “She’s inside. Go on, now. And mind what you say.”
Clara drew in a steadying breath, though with Desmond hovering large and tense just beside her, it wasn’t a simple feat. He still wore his baldric, with its brace of pistols.
Once her body stopped shaking, she pushed open the door.
“Madam!” Olive stood at the hearth, a kettle in her hand.
She wore her usual mobcap, though a few strands of ash-brown hair poked out from beneath the ruffle.
Over her pragmatic gray dress, she’d tied on an apron, and, despite the earliness, wore her usual affable smile.
“I didn’t expect you up at this hour. Didn’t sleep well again? ”
“Not especially,” Clara confessed, acutely aware of Desmond only feet away, armed, and listening with exceptionally sharp hearing.
“Just getting the kettle on,” Olive said brightly. “Then I can toast up some bread and cheese. That always puts you to rights, madam.”
The orange tabby cat who roamed the area lounged in front of the hearth, warming itself. It glanced toward the door, behind which Desmond lurked.
The cat might alert Olive to Desmond. But then it looked away and accepted a pet from the housekeeper before getting up, stretching, and venturing out through the open kitchen door.
“It’s not necessary.” Clara went to the large, heavy table positioned in the center of the kitchen and drummed her hands on its well-worn wooden surface. “In fact, I won’t be needing anything from you today.”
“Pardon?” Still holding the kettle, Olive blinked at her. “Did I come on the wrong day? I could’ve sworn it was Wednesday.”
“It is Wednesday, but thought you might take a holiday.” Clara tried for a smile, and it didn’t seem altogether successful, judging by the creasing of Olive’s brow. “Go see your brother and his wife and children. They live in…Shropshire?”
“In Shrewsbury, aye.” Olive finally set the kettle down and faced Clara.
“Go to Shrewsbury, then,” Clara said, vying for decisiveness in her voice. “Take a week. No—a fortnight.”
“Are you certain about this, madam? I do worry about you, with me only coming twice weekly. If there’s no one coming for a fortnight, well, how will get on?”
“I can manage,” Clara insisted.
“But—”
“Truly.” Clara moved around the table, and set her hand on Olive’s work-strong wrist. “Didn’t your brother and his wife just welcome another babe?”
A smile filled Olive’s weathered face. “Oh, aye. A little girl. They named her Olive.”
“Then, it’s settled. You must go see your namesake. Take as much time as you need to see the child. I sincerely can look after myself.”
The housekeeper looked her up and down, her eyes bright and shrewd in the light sifting in from the kitchen’s high, narrow windows. Clara struggled not to shift beneath Olive’s insightful gaze, or smooth out the wrinkles in her hopelessly rumpled nightclothes.
“Perhaps,” the housekeeper said slowly, “while I’m gone, you could hire a girl from the village to come and help you pack your trunks.
You ought to go to London, madam. I’ve said so before.
Or if not London, then Cheltenham. Attend a supper party or go to the theater.
A little company could do wonders for you.
It’s not right, you know, being so young and full of spirit, all on your own. ”
“Oh, I—”
“We talked about it before, you and I. If you go on holiday, you might find someone to warm your bed, too. A dashing rake who whispers wicked words and does even more wicked things. I know you’d like that, madam. Haven’t you said as much to me?”
“Olive!” The fire wasn’t yet lit in the hearth, but for all that, Clara was certain she’d immolate herself on the spot. Curse her for being so open with her housekeeper. This was not the time to revisit that conversation. “I’m not…I’ve said I don’t need another husband.”
“I said nothing of husbands, madam.” Olive’s smile was sly. “I’ve been widowed these twelve years, but that doesn’t mean my bread’s stopped rising, and Mr. Dover, the baker, doesn’t give it a nice knead every now and again. You could use a good kneading yourself.”
“Please, Olive, I beg you, no more of this.” Clara pressed her hands to her flaming cheeks. “Go to Shrewsbury. Today.”
“As you please, madam.” Olive untied her apron and hung it on the peg near the larder. “Only consider what I said. Take your own holiday. Find yourself someone to pound your dough. It’ll work wonders for your humors.”
The housekeeper picked up the basket she’d set by the servants’ door. After giving Clara a curtsy, she slipped outside.
Clara folded her arms on the kitchen table and sagged down. How often did catastrophic geological events occur in Gloucestershire? Hopefully, one would happen this morning, the ground would split open, and she’d fall into a bottomless crevasse, never to be seen again.
That hope became a full-blown demand when the door to the kitchen opened and closed, and Desmond stepped inside.
“Dough,” he said, laughter plain in his voice.
“Don’t.” Clara buried her head in her arms. Mortification swamped her.
She’d gone six years without feeling much of anything, carefully and deliberately sheltering herself from emotion.
Within the span of less than twelve hours, she’d ricocheted between fearing for her very life, to caring for an injured man, to flirting with not one but three attractive men, and then having one of those men take up space in her most private room.
And now he’d learned just how truly starved she was for a man’s attention.
No one could possibly weather such upheaval.
She didn’t pick up her head, but she heard movement in the kitchen, ordinary, domestic sounds of metal objects being moved and cupboards being opened. Something fragrant sizzled in a pan.
Finally, she looked up. Desmond moved around the kitchen, his motions efficient, certainly not the kind of blundering one might expect from a virile man in a space where women were often relegated.
He had the kettle going, and a loaf of brown bread was partially sliced, and he tended a pan on the hob, holding the handle as he swirled butter around.
With one hand, he cracked an egg onto the hot surface.